


Turn the Same

by significantowl



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Kisses, M/M, Mistletoe, Reincarnation, Tumblr Memes, Winter, Winter Solstice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-10 02:24:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/significantowl/pseuds/significantowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Arthur works in the City, Merlin grows half-forgotten herbs in a rooftop garden, and mistletoe has more than one meaning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turn the Same

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rane_ab](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rane_ab/gifts).



> Written for rane_ab's prompt of "mistletoe kiss" in a meme on tumblr.

Twenty-first century life suited Arthur because Arthur had decided that it should. He approached it with the same grim determination and occasional horror he’d worn in the face of undead armies or winged beasts, and Merlin thought he expected the same out of smartphones and bank machines as he had once done these other improbabilities: not to understand them, but to bend them to his will.

And he did, one aspect of modern life after another. Except public transport. This Arthur dealt with by hiring a driver, and got massively shirty when anyone suggested that might count as giving in.

During the long, quiet years, Merlin had found and procured a nice small holding at the base of a hill, with a green pastures and a gentle stream running through it. He’d thought that when Arthur came back to the world - to him - it would be a perfect place to begin again. Arthur could try his hand at farming, finally; Merlin could ease him back into life with the familiar rhythms of growth and harvest, show him that the world still turned the same.

They lived in the penthouse flat of a glass-and-steel monstrosity in central London. Arthur worked in the City everyday, came home at night in his Lamborghini (the driver relegated to the passenger’s seat if the streets were clear, because Arthur liked to drive if he could drive fast), and Merlin grew half-forgotten herbs in a rooftop garden and blogged daily on their many and glorious uses with the sort of citation-free conviction that made him popular with the public and despaired of by all serious botanists in the UK.

Merlin was far better at reading a train schedule than Arthur, and miles more accomplished at waiting patiently when the trains ran late and the “pact with the people had been broken,” as Arthur haughtily put it, so Midwinter’s morning found him at Paddington station, taking the train west down to the small holding, the air crisp and clean when he alighted at the little country station, the ground still shining with frost.

Not every plant could grow on a rooftop in London, and Merlin ignored the cottage entirely, climbing the hill to reach the ancient oak that watched over the land from the very top.

He cut the mistletoe from its bough with all the reverence it was due, taking only as much befitted his need, speaking words of thanks in a language not dead only because he remained to speak it.

Enough for every sleek floor-to-ceiling window, and the penthouse’s front door. Merlin had done the same a thousand years before, attaching sprigs of glossy leaves and white berries to the mullioned windows of Arthur’s chambers, and hanging them in the shadows over the great oak doors. He’d not done so in the long years since. What did he have left to protect against the dark?

The job was done by the time Arthur came home, and he stopped in the doorway, eyes fixed on the greenery above. “I know what that’s about,” he said, pleased and smug, and Merlin quite naturally huffed at his tone.

"No, you don’t, you don’t read my blog," he said. "Or if you do," he amended, because Arthur had never actually appeared to notice mistletoe before, so who knew what other surprises he was capable of, "I haven’t made today’s entry yet."

Arthur stood, one eyebrow raised in a way that said “get over here” more clearly than any crooked finger could do. And Merlin went, because denying Arthur things was not a skill he’d perfected with age.

A big, firm hand cupped Merlin’s head, tipping it down. Arthur’s lips were cold, but they warmed quickly, wonderfully, and he kissed with the same single-minded intensity that took down armies, except that Merlin had never been so easily won and gave as good as he got.

"You see," Arthur said as they parted, "I do know all about mistletoe. I work in an office, you realise."

"That idiotic comment is going in my blog tonight, you may as well know," Merlin said, then kissed Arthur again, because sometimes - often - it was better than listening to him.

Arthur had an arm tight around his back by the time they broke this kiss, and Merlin’s hand had slid up Arthur’s chest, where beneath his palm Arthur’s heart beat steady and true. Merlin whispered again his old words of thanks, letting them brush gently over Arthur’s lips; he didn’t expect Arthur to understand, but perhaps Arthur did, because he closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to Merlin’s, a gesture Merlin knew must translate the same.


End file.
